by Debbie Rix
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gloucestershire
July 2017
A few days after Sophie had lost the babies, Hamish rang.
‘Your mother called me to tell what had happened… I’m so, so sorry, darling,’ he said. It sounded to Rachael, as if he was crying.
‘Thank you,’ she said flatly. ‘I should have told you myself.’
‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ he said. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Perhaps I could pop over? We ought to talk. Your mother sounded worried. Apparently you only told her about us a couple of days ago?’
‘I couldn’t face it when I’d just lost the…’ she trailed off. ‘There was too much going on – in my head.’
‘I understand. But she’s your mother – the most logical, sensible woman in the world…’
‘I know… well I’ve told her now, so…’ Sophie’s voice ground to a halt.
‘Well…’ said Hamish, ‘I need to collect one or two things. How about I come over this evening?’
‘Well you can come, but I won’t be here.’ Her voice was impassive. ‘I’m going to London today, and after work, I’ll be visiting Vic and Simon.’
‘Oh, of course,’ he said, ‘they must have had their baby… how did it go?’
‘Fine. He’s called Alastair… and weighed in at eight pounds.’
A silence hung between them as they considered this new addition to the family.
‘And are you… all right?’ he said, his voice filled with concern.
‘I’m fine,’ she answered, briskly. ‘Come today, or tomorrow to get your stuff – whatever works for you.’
As Sophie sat on the train to London, her overnight bag by her side containing a small teddy bear wrapped in blue paper for her new nephew, she wept, silently. She wore dark sunglasses that protected her from the bright sunshine outside but also obscured her tears from the other passengers. She cried for so many things – the loss of her own babies, the envy she would inevitably feel when she met her brother’s son and the thought of her husband removing things from their house, dismantling their marriage piece by piece.
The only positive thing in her life was her work. As she walked through the portals of the university she began to look forward to teaching a class of undergraduates. It was weeks since she had had any contact with students and always found their probing questions and enthusiasm for their subject refreshing. The university was due to break up for the summer in a couple of weeks’ time, and the students were in a happy, energetic mood.
After the lecture, she realised she hadn’t thought of her personal problems at all. Her work had provided a much-needed respite from the endless emotional wrangling.
At the end of the day, she took the bus to Hampstead. Her brother and his wife were bringing the baby to spend the evening with her parents, and she had to admit she was nervous about it. Concerned that she might be jealous or harbour some negativity.
As she came into the house, she heard the sound of a baby crying. It was like a physical shock to her system. She took a deep breath and went into the kitchen. Her sister-in-law Victoria was rocking the screaming newborn, anxiously, in her arms.
‘Sophie!’ Victoria said, delightedly. ‘So lovely to see you!’
‘Lovely to see you too,’ Sophie said truthfully. She kissed her sister-in-law and peered at the angry bundle in her arms. ‘Look at him…’ she said wistfully. ‘He’s so beautiful, Victoria…’
Sophie meant it. He had gold hair, like her own mother. His eyes were still the inky blue of the newborn child.
‘Can I hold him?’ she asked, surprising herself. She realised she wanted desperately to cradle her brother’s child in her arms.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Victoria, gratefully. ‘He’s hungry I think and in a terrible temper…’
She handed the swaddled baby to Sophie, who took him and sat with him on a kitchen chair, stroking his cheek.
‘Hello Alastair.’
He looked up at her and his sobs subsided. She unwrapped him from his blanket, settling his head against the crook of her arm. He relaxed, lolling on her lap, his hands forming little fists that he raised towards her in greeting. He gazed, blinking, at her face, studying it intently.
‘My goodness,’ said Victoria. ‘You’ve got the knack. He’s been crying for over half an hour. None of us could do a thing with him.’
‘Oh, I’m just someone new, I suppose. I think he was a bit hot… but what do I know?’
When Sophie returned to her house the following evening, she went up to her bedroom and opened the wardrobe to hang up her jacket. The empty hangers where Hamish’s shirts and jackets had once been struck her with a force that took her breath away. It felt like another bereavement. And yet, she had been instrumental in his departure; had demanded it.
He’d been gone for several weeks and she couldn’t help wondering if she had been too hasty. They had been together so long and were so entwined in one another’s lives. She found herself wanting to talk to him about meeting Simon and Vic’s baby. She wanted to tell him how easy it had been – that she had surprised herself, and had felt no jealousy or animosity – just affection and love for her brother’s little boy. She wanted to tell him how relieved she was. But he wasn’t there to tell. So instead, she fed the cat, made herself an omelette and sat down in front of the television until it was time for bed.
The following morning, the clinic rang.
‘Hello,’ she said, recognising the number.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mitchell. We wondered how you were getting on.’
‘Oh, that’s kind of you. Not too bad, thank you.’
‘We’re here… if you need to talk. Our counsellors are always available if you feel the need to discuss any aspect of your treatment…’
‘Yes,’ she said, surprising herself. ‘I would like to talk.’
The counsellor was younger than Sophie had expected – no more than thirty, Sophie thought. She had long brown hair and kind pale blue eyes.
‘Please… do sit down,’ she said to Sophie. ‘So… how are things?’
‘My husband’s moved out,’ Sophie said, abruptly.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said the young woman, obviously caught off guard.
‘Yes… it’s only just happened.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘I suppose I should.’
‘Was it connected to the IVF?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so. It was the pressure, I think.’
‘That’s not uncommon.’
‘Really?’ Sophie was surprised. ‘I imagined everyone else working as… a team, you know? Both in it together.’
‘No,’ said the woman kindly, ‘not always. It’s quite common for the man to feel excluded from the process. Sometimes they refuse to cooperate; I’ve even known some men to have an affair.’
‘He did that,’ said Sophie, relieved to discover she was not alone, ‘…he had an affair – well, a brief liaison. He tried to tell me it didn’t matter.’
‘But it mattered to you…’
‘Yes. Of course. I felt it was so… disloyal, apart from anything else. There we were trying for a baby and he was with someone else.’
The counsellor slid a box of tissues towards Sophie, who took one and blew her nose.
‘And he became increasingly uncooperative about the process,’ she continued. ‘It was as if… he resented the intrusion, the medicalisation.’
The counsellor nodded.
‘Maybe…’ said the counsellor, ‘you both need to take a little time out from the process? The procedure takes its toll on everyone involved.’
‘I just worry that I’m getting older by the day and if I lose my husband, I lose my chance of a baby, too. And that would be just too difficult to bear.’
Sophie broke down and sobbed. The counsellor sat, quietly, making notes. When Sophie finally dried her tears, the counsello
r said, ‘You still have plenty of time, Sophie. You’re only thirty-four. We help people here who are far older than you.’
‘But I don’t know if my husband and I will ever get back together.’
‘Well – one day at a time, eh? I’m not a marriage counsellor, but I’d have thought that if you really love each other you could come back together again.’
‘But how can I ever forgive him?’
‘That’s not for me to say. But… it’s a two-way process – forgiveness, isn’t it?’
‘But I’ve not done anything wrong…’ said Sophie.
‘No… But maybe your husband felt unloved or ignored. I’m not saying what he did was right – not at all – but people usually act badly, or out of character for a reason.’
This comment lingered with Sophie, as she showered, or cooked, or tidied the garden. The following Tuesday she was due to travel to London for work, as usual, and stay overnight with her parents. She’d arranged with ‘Mick the Chick’ to feed the cat in her absence.
‘I’ll just be away overnight,’ she’d said. ‘Back tomorrow.’
‘Is the Doc not going to be at home?’ asked Mick, fishing for gossip.
‘No,’ said Sophie, firmly. ‘He’s away at a conference.’ She shut the subject down, determined the village rumour mill would get no details of her marriage problems. She couldn’t bear the idea that Flora might find out that Sophie and Hamish were having difficulties.
That evening, as her mother prepared dinner in Hampstead, Sophie mentioned the counsellor’s advice.
‘Do you think she was right? That there was a good reason for him to have an affair? It seems to me, she’s just excusing him.’
‘Well, I agree,’ said Angela, rinsing the rice under the hot tap. ‘You didn’t make him sleep with someone else. But, on the other hand, you had become utterly fixated… you know… on the idea of a baby. I think he obviously found that hard to cope with. He felt excluded, I suppose.’
‘I know. I see that now… I was so hurt to begin with I couldn’t see past his betrayal.’
‘That’s to be expected.’
‘He texts me you know… Hamish.’
‘That’s good,’ said Angela.
‘Is it? I don’t know whether to reply.’
‘Darling. You’ve been together for years. You don’t just walk away from that overnight. Do you miss him?’
‘Sort of… yes. Of course. I miss the man he was – before all of this.’
‘Before he met Flora, or before you started IVF?’
‘Ouch… If I’m honest, it all began to go wrong when we started IVF,’ said Sophie.
‘Well, that’s honest of you,’ said her mother. ‘But I don’t want you to blame yourself. Just let things process a while… you’ve got a lot to think about. Just remember this – there is no right and wrong here. Whatever you decide to do – we’ll support you.’
‘Thank you, Mum…’ said Sophie, leaning over and kissing her mother’s cheek.
‘Now…’ said Angela, ‘before we start dinner, I wondered if you could help Dad bring Granny’s desk down from the attic. It’s so pretty and no one gets to see it up there. I’d like it downstairs in the sitting room. It won’t be that heavy if we take the drawers out…’
With Angela overseeing the operations, Sophie and her father engineered the desk, now denuded of its contents, down two flights of stairs from the attic.
‘Oh… mind that wall,’ exclaimed Angela. ‘You’ll have to turn it a bit on its side if you’re going to get round that corner; maybe push it that way?’
Finally, Alex, who was normally very patient with his wife, put the desk down and said firmly: ‘Are you doing this, or am I?’
‘Sorry…’ Angela said. ‘I’ll go downstairs and finish dinner.’
As Sophie manoeuvred the desk into the alcove into the sitting room, her father went back upstairs for the three large drawers that fitted into the base
Sophie opened the flap of the bureau, admiring the smaller drawers and central cupboard.
‘This is a lovely piece, isn’t it?’ she called through to her mother. ‘Is this the original paintwork?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Angela, coming into the sitting room. ‘Mum had it for years. It’s always just been there somehow. But it will look nice there in the alcove, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s very pretty. Did you know what Granny kept in these little drawers?’
‘No,’ said Angela. ‘What have you found?’
‘Lots of photographs, and postcards. We could look through them later.’
Her mother went back to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner, leaving Sophie to inspect the contents of each small drawer. She found a small brass key and was delighted to find it fitted the lock of the central cupboard. To her disappointment, the cupboard was empty, but when she put her hand into the space and felt around inside, the back panel shifted slightly. Intrigued, she tucked her fingers behind the panel and pulled gently. It came away easily. With the panel removed, behind it she spotted an envelope. Sliding it out, she found it was obviously quite old, yellowing at the edges. The flap had not been stuck down, so she felt no hesitation in opening it. Inside she found a photograph of a young man – tall, and athletic, with black hair swept back from his high forehead, and dark eyes. He was leaning against a wooden boat that had been dragged up onto a sandy beach. Turning the photograph over, she found an inscription: Tommaso, my love, Sant’Antioco, 1959.
She looked again at the picture. It reminded her of someone.
‘Mum…’ she called out to her mother. ‘Could you come in here a minute?’
Her mother came into the sitting room, drying her hands.
‘Look at this photo – who is this? And look at the inscription on the back – that’s Granny’s writing isn’t it?’
Angela studied the photograph. ‘I have no idea…’ she said. ‘He looks familiar, though.’
‘He does, doesn’t he? Tommaso – do you know the name?’
‘No… I don’t know anyone called Tommaso.’
‘And she has written: Sant’Antioco. That’s where her father discovered those Roman tombs; I’ve been looking at his research as part of my PhD. He was there in 1959,’ said Sophie, ‘and she must have gone with him. You would have been about two then. Surely, you’d have gone with her?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Angela. ‘I have no memory of being in Sardinia, and Mum never mentioned it. I suppose it’s possible she went out for a week or so while Grandpa was there, and met this man…’
Sophie put the photograph back in the envelope. As she did so, her fingers touched something else. She pulled out a little narrow bracelet made of brown thread. Instinctively she held it up to the light. It glimmered a little. What was it made of? It reminded her of the photographs she had seen of gloves and gauntlets made of byssus. The material was the same. She tied the bracelet around her wrist. Could George have given it to Rachael? Had he found it when he was working on the dig in Sant’Antioco? She knew from her research that Sardinia was one of the last outposts of byssus production – perhaps he had it made for Rachael when he was there?
What now seemed clear was that her grandmother had known about byssus all along. And the dream Sophie had all those months before in which Rachael talked about the water women diving for sea silk… maybe that wasn’t a dream after all. She untied the bracelet, put it back in the envelope with the photograph and placed it into her handbag.
Later that evening, as she lay in her childhood bedroom, she had another text from Hamish – the third that week. With each communication, she felt her resolve to banish him from her life weakening:
Hello there… how are you? Hamish wrote.
I’m fine. How are you? Sophie replied.
Missing you. I love you.
The following day, there was another message from Hamish:
Lunch sometime? I miss you so much.
I’m not sure�
� Sophie replied.
I’m buying… somewhere different.
Just lunch you understand? she relented.
Yes… this Saturday?
They met in a small pub in a neighbouring village, filled with braying weekenders wearing Barbours and expensive waterproof boots that had clearly never seen mud. Hamish found them a cosy corner to sit in and ordered a bottle of wine.
‘I don’t really want wine,’ Sophie said. ‘I’ve almost given it up… drinking.’
‘Really… I seem to drink more and more.’
He poured the Rioja into his glass and drained it.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you’re becoming an alcoholic now.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Just joking. But take it easy – you’ve got to drive, presumably.’
‘I know,’ he said, dejectedly. ‘It helps to dull the pain a bit.’
They sat in awkward silence, as Hamish nervously fingered the bottle of wine, eyeing his empty glass.
‘Oh Sophie,’ Hamish said, eventually, reaching across the table and holding her hand. ‘I just want us to get back together. I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’m so, so sorry.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ she said removing her hand from his. She felt irritated by his apology. Slightly insulted – as if merely saying sorry was enough for her to just forgive him. ‘It must be very annoying for you,’ she said, ‘not to be living in your own house.’
‘It’s not that… It’s you I miss. I even miss that awful cat. How can I prove that I’m sorry – what can I do that will make you realise that I mean it?’
‘I don’t know…’